


This creaking in my bones isn't pain, it's applause

by fairmanor



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anniversary, Boys In Love, Contentment, David Rose Loves Patrick Brewer, David Rose is Happy, Domestic Fluff, Finding Peace, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Smut, M/M, Multi, Podfic Welcome, Recovery, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: “David, can I ask you a question?”David looks at the amount of wine left in the last bottle on the table. “Oh, here we go.”****On their tenth wedding anniversary, Patrick has an important question for David. It gets David thinking.ORA non-linear map of David’s road to happiness.
Relationships: Alexis Rose & David Rose, Clint Brewer/Marcy Brewer, Johnny Rose/Moira Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 44
Kudos: 289





	This creaking in my bones isn't pain, it's applause

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agoodpersonrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodpersonrose/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this little fic about David finding happiness and contentment over the years! justwaiting23, this might be the most indulgent, jammiest jam I could possibly write. I know you've had a sneak peek already, but I hope you enjoy again :)

“David, can I ask you a question?”

David looks at the amount of wine left in the last bottle on the table. “Oh, here we go.”

David thinks he can map the very heart and veins of his husband that way. In the wooden cracks on the walls of their house, in the kettle bubbling at 3am, the twitch of his fingers, the subtlest nods that even his parents might not pick up on. With how much wine is left in Patrick’s bottle, he can tell what kind of question it’s going to be, and he knows just how many sugars Patrick will want in his tea tomorrow morning.

It’s well into the night, and David and Patrick can’t drag themselves to bed for all the jetlag and alcohol and impromptu sofa sex. The actual day of their tenth anniversary must have passed a couple of hours ago, and David is reminded of those in-between planes of existence when he stays up past midnight on Christmas Day and is left with that soft, nagging feeling that something special is over. They had planned to spend their anniversary week in Sicily flying out today, but small, undramatic bits of work and life gently prodded them to reschedule for the week before. So they arrived home that evening, having laughed and talked and loudly complained about annoying middle-aged couples in airports all the way from Italy before they got off the plane and realized, oh God, they _are_ one of those annoying middle-aged couples in airports. There had been a younger male couple who looked rather like the two of them sat nearby on the plane, off on their honeymoon (which David and Patrick found out after needling them for conversation for far too long). It was only when they were walking, hands linked on the way to a waterfront restaurant near their hotel, that they understood they’d probably pissed those poor boys off into oblivion – and, worst-case scenario, given them an existential crisis about their own future.

“Go on then,” David says. He sinks into a cool space in the middle of the couch, his thighs settling onto Patrick’s feet where he lies, sideways and outstretched on the other side. “Do your worst.”

“Have you been happy?”

David is quiet for a moment. He slowly finishes off the rest of his glass of wine in one thin, smooth sip, then lies down. It’s a lying-down question. Patrick softly grumbles that David is squashing him before moving to give him room, and then David is stretched along the length of his husband, his head on Patrick’s chest.

They’ve been exchanging those kinds of questions for the best part of an hour now. All the _have you’_ s and _will we’_ s and _did I’_ s that have slipped through their fingers like sand over the decade, things that they’d always wanted to talk about but always felt out of context and out of the blue doing so. Off days that went undiscussed, mysteries left unsolved, little pieces of husband that get buried underneath that label and go unspoken.

_David, I promise, I’m going to make you so happy here._

David knew it at the time, and he knows it now. That those words would never, ever leave him.

* * *

_They don’t leave him three years and three months in when David realizes that he does, in fact, have two sets of parents._

David’s relationship with Moira and Johnny had only gotten better since they left Schitt’s Creek. Actually missing them was something new. They may have been an absence in his life before, but now he actually _feels_ their absence, which is different. It means they left something behind for him to cradle, to cherish, something that creeps back warm and tugs at his heart when he sees them on video calls, or texts heatedly in their new family group chat when episodes of Sunrise Bay air, or when they surprise David at his front door on the morning of his birthday.

That said, the fact that there’s a relationship there at all – and a strong, loving one at that – inadvertently serves as a reminder of what once was. There are still moments in between when David has to clamp his lips together as they speak to him and he’s surprised by their compassion or generosity or because things are so different now, they’re all so overwhelmingly _different_ that he can’t help being brought to the verge of tears.

He’s leaning over the kitchen counter, popping his head in and out of a video call with his parents as he wrestles with the new blender he bought in an attempt to force himself to bake.

“So then I called the courier and they said you should expect the parcel ‘between 9am and 11pm’, and I was like, what the hell’s that all about? If you’re gonna give a time frame, then at least make it a window, not a gaping hole. That’s an entire day,” David rambles. “So yeah, it’s been a whole fiasco. Don’t be surprised when your presents turn up trampled at the door.”

“Champion yourself, dear! I’m sure all will be well,” Moira says. “Has your own Yuletide gift arrived from our end yet?”

“Ooh, no! What kind of gift?”

“Ah, that’s the point of gifts, son,” Johnny chuckles. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Um, did you just listen to my entire story? What if UPS messes everything up again?”

David presses them for details until, finally, Moira concedes.

“If you insist on spoiling your own surprise, then so be it! We’ve procured a set of wine-tasting tickets for the two of you, but you can’t use them for another seven months.”

“Seven months? I didn’t expect Herb Ertlinger to be so booked up.”

“Oh, perish the thought! I won’t have you supping on that lemony laundry detergent. They’re for a winery in Kefalonia.”

David drops the blender plug. “Hm. Wha– excuse me?”

“Did you not once say Kefalonia was a potential retreat for one of your fortieth birthday festivities?”

He had in fact said that. A couple of years ago now, when the five-letter F-word was first mentioned unironically. And there’s something about them remembering that, when it felt like yesterday that they’d forgotten his birthday, that makes David’s throat ache.

“That’s…really nice of you,” he says thickly. “Thank you so much.”

“Ah! Have to dash, Tippy’s on the phone. Bid hello to Clint and Marcy for us, dear!”

“Have a good evening, son.”

With a final wave, they’re gone. David’s not sure how much time passes, but Patrick eventually sticks his head into the kitchen to find David in the same place, face embarrassingly red with tears.

“David? What’s wrong? Did they say something to you?”

David chokes out a wet laugh, wiping at his face. He turns around to let himself be held by the waist.

“No…no. They were great. I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay.” Patrick presses a kiss to David’s cheek and gives him a tap on the arm. “My dad just called, he says they’ll be landing in half an hour. Should probably get those cookies made, huh?”

Even so, David holds off from making them, because he knows Marcy will want to help. They arrive in a flurry of suitcases and gift bags and plastic containers of food. Clint and Patrick get on with decorating the rest of the living room while Marcy supervises (and heftily contributes to) David’s baking.

David’s still feeling a little overwhelmed about the present, but after about an hour he settles down with the warm routineness of his in-laws. He finds a very different kind of parenthood in them. There are no reminders there, no absence, no being shocked to tears when they do something nice. There’s a stable, bittersweet yin-and-yang between Moira & Johnny and Marcy & Clint that complete David in different ways.

Once the cookies and butter tarts and cherry traybake are cooling on the rack, David and Marcy sit down on the couch with some tea to relish in their mutual love of Julia Stiles with the marathon playing on TV. With the fire crackling, hot mug in hand and his second mom’s warm arm pressed against his, it’s not long before David finds his eyes feeling heavy.

“I guess this is what happens when David tries to wake up early to get everything ready.”

David jolts upright. “What?”

He opens his eyes to see Clint and Patrick standing in front of them, snow-drenched with shovels in their hands. It wakes Marcy up, too.

“What d’you think, Patrick?” Clint says. “Should we just let them sleep and not tell them they left a load of burning cakes in the oven?”

That gets them both up. They let David scramble to the kitchen and Marcy yell about timers for a few long moments before they collapse into laughter. David and Marcy swipe at their respective husbands with wooden spoons and baking gloves, shooing them out of the kitchen.

“Ugh, you’re such trolls! Now I know where you get it, Patrick,” David grumbles.

“What can I say, David? You chose to marry into this family,” Patrick says, kissing David on the cheek with frozen lips.

David squirms under the cold touch, but smiles. He did, and he’s so glad he did.

* * *

_They don’t leave him seven months in when David realizes just how much his perspectives have changed._

It happens fast. One minute David is basking in the sun of one of the first properly warm days of the year, the next he’s flying out of bed, one hand over his face and the other clawing desperately at the sheets.

“Ugh, for fuck’s sake. For fuck’s _sake!_ Patrick, get up, it’s happened again!”

Patrick is alarmed awake, squinting in the sunlight.

“What? What’s wrong?” He looks down at the sheet, then up at David. The look on his face means he’s Preparing For An Outburst, which David is absolutely going to give him.

“Okay, David, let’s just take this one step at a –”

“I hate this. I hate it. Why am I like this?”

“It’s okay, at least we now know it’s a rare thing!” Patrick says, stripping the sheets gingerly. “We’ll deal with this the way we did last time. You get yourself a shower, take as long as you want.”

David spins 180 degrees on the spot, clutching at his hair. “What actually is my life? I’m so _old. Why_ is this happening to me?!”

“You know, it’s not necessarily restricted by age,” Patrick says. “Well, obviously, judging by the fact that you’ve –”

“Not helping, Patrick! Ugh.”

Patrick sighs and balls the sheets up in his hands, then he leaves David to wear himself out with ranting and eventually get in the shower for the first of at least three times that day.

Despite the hiccup at the beginning, David’s day goes pretty much as expected. It’s their day off, which makes it all the more convenient that their online orders of a new guitar (Patrick) and a painting canvas (David) are arriving today. Before he sits down to paint, he decides to make them both a batch of cinnamon, oatmeal and raisin cookies to eat with the new blend of tea they’re test driving for the store. He loses himself in the stirring and the careful reading of instructions and the smell of the oven when it opens, humming along to Patrick’s gentle strumming of [Night After Sidewalk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcaJ2e5w1Lc) that’s drifting in quietly from the living room.

He fills a teapot with water and lets the tea brew slow and strong, then piles the steaming cookies onto a plate and brings them through. He passes Patrick his cup of tea then sets out his new blank canvas on the coffee table along with his paints and freshly washed brushes.

“You seem to be distracting yourself nicely today,” Patrick says.

“Oh, I’m just doing what you told me,” David replies. “Dealing with it.”

“What was it that even made it happen? I remember your mom said last time it was because you were excited about the wedding, but…we’re not doing anything today. Or in the next couple of days.”

David sits and thinks about it as he takes a generous bite from a soft, warm cookie, brushing crumbs from the canvas onto which he’s sketching the first lines of a familiar place. Patrick’s right; last night had been quiet. The only thing of note that happened was Patrick looking up from their shared Amazon account on his laptop and saying that both the guitar and the canvas were being delivered today at the same time. And then David had turned out the light while he was thinking about Patrick playing his guitar into the calm, bright quiet of their day off while David kneels beside him, painting a picture of their house, and–

Oh.

Oh, okay.

“What’s that smile for, hm?” Patrick leans over and chucks David under the chin, smiling along with him.

“Oh, nothing.”

And he’s right. Because the day really is nothing, in the grand scheme of things. But it’s also everything. And that’s something.

He finishes his line sketch and dabs and mixes the colors he wants, dragging the brush in long, soothing strokes in time with the [next song Patrick is teaching himself.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QJ-VetghfM) By the time he finishes the main body of the cottage he gives up on realism and paints flowers, paints golden skies, paints plumes of purple and blue and pink blooming from the chimney. He carves love notes into the sky, angling a poem in short, thin calligraphy through the watercolor clouds, rather like his pelican sweater:

Come quick,

Dear love,

With panting breaths,

And muddy knees from careless steps.

Sink into me,

As melting snow. 

And wish no more 

For where to go. 

* * *

_They don’t leave him seven years and ten months in when David realizes he’s more okay with himself than he thinks._

“Patrick, get up. Come over here.”

“What?”

“Look at it. Look.”

“What am I looking at here, exactly?”

“Gut.”

David prods at the new softness on his stomach that he could have sworn wasn’t there a month ago. Patrick does the same, sticking his tongue out and making a little noise as he does.

“Don’t, Patrick! It’s not funny!”

“Come on David, it’s fine! You look cute.”

“Cute? Seriously?”

Patrick shrugs, wrapping his arms around David from behind. They stand and look at themselves in the mirror for a moment.

“And irresistibly sexy,” Patrick adds. “And very handsome.”

“Love the buzzwords, Patrick,” David says with a deadpan expression.

“S’ the truth. And if you stand there any longer we’re gonna be late, so get yourself ready.”

It’s a busy day. David throws on a white cable knit sweater for comfort during their three-hour journey to Burlington in order to pitch for a new grant now that Rose Apothecary has moved out of the ‘small business’ threshold. They trade snacks and try to one-up each other’s lyrical prowess singing along to _Hamilton_ on the way.

“Oh, shit, my contacts!” David says, about two-thirds of the way through the journey, when he tries to read the ingredients on the back of a cereal bar packet and is confronted with a shiny blur. “I forgot to renew my order the other week and yesterday’s were the last ones. It completely slipped my mind this morning.”

“Well, while you were stood in front of the mirror looking at yourself, I packed your spare glasses in my bag,” Patrick says. He kicks the bag towards David’s feet and David digs through it until he finds his [glasses.](https://www.bulgari.com/en-gb/903809.html) He puts them on. He’s always liked wearing them, even if not very often. They’re polished in a very pleasing black-and-gold gradient and sit comfortably on the bridge of his nose.

“You should wear them more often,” Patrick says, eyeing David with a smile. “You look gorgeous.”

David flips down the front seat mirror and looks at his glasses, looks at the hair he didn’t have time to coif this morning. It’s sitting in a little black flurry on top of his head, soft and curled and snug.

“What, you think I should forego the contacts altogether?” David says. His tone is only slightly trimmed with the usual offense he expresses when Patrick tries to offer style suggestions, since he doesn’t actually think it’s a bad idea, but he has to let it slip in there somewhere because that’s the game they play. It wouldn’t do to _not_ carry out such a well-worn routine of bickering, especially when it calms David down as much as it does.

Patrick shrugs as he jerks the steering wheel to the right, veering the car off the highway and onto the last road to Burlington. “It would save money, at the least.”

“You know what? Fine. I’m gonna consider it. And that’s saying something. But if it turns out you’re terribly wrong, I’m putting my contacts on your card from now on.”

Patrick swats at David’s arm. “You’re getting expensive to keep, mister. Next time my David contract runs out, I’m throwing you out into the fields.”

“Of _course_ you are.” David opens his mouth to accept the snack Patrick’s holding out for him, knowing full well that Patrick’s going to spoil him rotten for the rest of their lives.

He settles back into his seat and hugs himself round the middle, comfortable and relaxed and ready to nail the hell out of this pitch.

After the pitch (and a quick stop home, because Patrick was _really_ excited about how focused and nerdy David got while talking about the business and there wasn’t enough room to express his appreciation in the car), they’re on their way to the airport to pick up the Roses (and one Mullens) for their annual week-long stay in Schitt’s Creek. They try to time it with David’s birthday and the musical production – this year, it’s Come From Away – which only sometimes works, until some Rose-esque debacle gets in the way. Thankfully, this year seems to be a drama-free one. They arrive right on time to find Moira, Johnny, Alexis and Ted on their way down the escalator that feeds into the waiting room. Alexis squeals and runs for Patrick as soon as she sees him.

“My favourite brother! How are you, Button?” she says, practically launching herself onto him.

Patrick stumbles backwards, laughing as the forceful grip of his sister-in-law almost sends him flying to the ground. Ted gently moves Alexis out of the way to give Patrick what David calls his ‘straight man hug’.

“Patrick! Good to see you, man, how’re you doing?”

“Pat, you’re looking radiant, as always.”

“Hi, son! It’s been so long!”

David grows more and more confused as his family smother Patrick in welcome, occasionally looking around the airport as though they’re keeping an eye out for someone. Then Moira’s voice rises above the excited rabble:

“Sweet Pat, who is this vivacious young man by whom you are accompanied?”

“Wait, where’s– oh my God, _David?”_

The four turn to David as though they’re just seeing him for the first time, blinking and gaping in shock.

“Um, hello, everyone! Nice to see you too!” David snaps, hands flailing in outrage.

Alexis looks David up and down, arms limp and eyes wide.

“Well, bon _jour,”_ Alexis says. “Look at you, you look so good!”

Moira trots over, cupping David’s face. “Whatever happened to you, David? You seem to be complemented by an unfamiliar and volatile _glow.”_

David’s mouth twitches up under the attention. “Well, I mean. It’s –”

He tries to think of something witty to say, but he can’t come up with an answer. It’s really not like he was trying today or anything.

Patrick snakes a firm, knowing arm around David’s waist as they lead their family out of the airport, and David knows there’ll be something Patrick wants to say to him later.

“So you’re _glowing,_ huh?” Patrick says that night, pulling back the bed covers to slide in next to David, who’s propped up on his elbow with a book.

“It’s certainly not a word I’d ever associate myself with,” David said. “I sometimes _think_ I’m glowing, but that’s just skin product. Sometimes I manage to perfect this sort of arresting, exhilarating twinkle in my eye, don’t know if you’ve noticed. It’s very effective.”

“Mm.” Patrick leans into him, and David half-closes his eyes in anticipation of a kiss, but it doesn’t come.

“You didn’t let me finish talking about you this morning,” Patrick whispers. “Get out of bed for a second.”

With only minimal grumbling, Patrick manages to get David out of bed and in front of the full-length mirror on the other side of their bedroom. With a slightly larger amount of grumbling, he coaxes David’s pyjama shirt off as well. They stand like that for a while, looking into the mirror again, their day ending just as it started.

Patrick runs a gentle palm over the soft flesh of David’s belly, and David permits him a small squeeze without protest.

“You also look comfortable,” Patrick says. “And healthy. And happy.”

David leans back into his husband’s warm, strong arms, and silently agrees. He tips his head back to nestle into Patrick, who presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“You’re beautiful,” Patrick murmurs. “Look how beautiful you are.”

David looks. And, for once, he sees.

* * *

_They don’t leave him six years and one month in when David realizes what it means to truly have his past behind him._

He’s alone in the store, with Patrick taking his usual day off for the week to do part-time work for the small business start-up consultancy service he’s founded. It’s been a quiet day, punctured only by the showtunes that Patrick finally convinced David to add to the store’s cycle of music (David agreed on the conditions that they fit with the aesthetic, only came from original Broadway recordings and didn’t include anything from _Cats)._

“David? I knew it! It _is_ you!”

David whirls around to the open door of Rose Apothecary, where the bell is still tinkling and there stands Karis Myers, the same as always: short, chrome-haired, and perhaps the only decent person in David’s horrifying merry-go-round of a late 2000s life. Their mouth drops open in surprise and David scoots over, opening his arms in a hug.

“Oh my God, Karis! Hi!”

“It’s so good to see you! I’m just passing through on the way to my mom’s house.”

“How are the kids?”

“Good, good! We’re in Portland now, which is nice. And better than New York, but everything seems to be these days.”

Karis steps into the store, looking around at the seasonal display of scarves, pumpkins and cinnamon-scented hand creams.

“So this is what you’ve been up to, huh? You’re gonna know exactly what I’m about to say, but I couldn’t help but try and find you after I saw that tweet –”

“–The tweet, yeah,” David finishes, laughing.

The Tweet has become something of a modern legend in the Rose-Brewer household in the past couple of months. Patrick logged into the Rose Apothecary account one day to find their mentions, follows and DMs absolutely flooded with questions about where to find them and their products, as if they’d somehow gained nationwide recognition overnight. After a full hour of responding to everyone and trying to source the reason for it, David finally stumbled across a tweet with hundreds of thousands of likes that read “Is it just me, or do the soaps in Canadian motels just hit different?” accompanied by a picture of some of the mini packs of Rose Apothecary products that they’d been providing in steady streams to the Rosebud Motel Group for the best part of six years now. The general consensus was positive (“Omg YES! I always steal them ksjdksjdj”, “where can I find these outside of motels?” “Look, I found their website!”), and thus…online store sold out in hours.

Karis picks up a soap, raising it to their nose and breathing in deep. “Ugh, gorgeous. We always tried to find locally sourced stuff in the city, didn’t we?”

David smiles at his old friend and fellow ex-socialite. They were the one who would sit with David and talk about all the cracks in their lives until the sun came up, and the only one who David felt comfortable shit-talking the others with. If it weren’t for Karis’ authenticity, he would have definitely lost his mind.

After selecting a load of products while chatting and catching up, David moves behind the desk to ring up the order. Then, suddenly, Karis gasps.

“Oh my God. I completely forgot!” they say. “I didn’t even tell you about Sebastien.”

David blinks. Is he missing something here? Maybe he just needs a second to catch up. He’s not really sure what to say.

“I’m sorry, who?” is what comes out. And he means it.

Karis frowns. “Dude. Sebastien. _You_ of all people know who Sebastien is. He’s been getting real embarrassing since he had his last exhibition, which was like, a million years ago. Watching him try and stay relevant is like the same feeling you get when you see an old person sat by themselves in a restaurant. Anyway, someone on Instagram accused him of plagiarising other people’s photos and he responded by posting this huge collage of things he claimed he’d taken, like, on that day, but they all literally had Stock photo watermarks on them. I was _crying_ with laughter. Literally crying.”

David laughs because it’s objectively funny, even if he’s not sure exactly who he’s meant to be laughing at here. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“Right? Anyway, enough about _him_ ,” Karis says, taking their purchases and putting them in a tote bag. “I should head, but it was really good to see you, David. Stay in touch!”

“You too!” David says. And with a tinkle of the bell, they’re gone.

****

“Oh my God, Sebastien Raine!”

Patrick looks up from his pasta. “Sorry?”

“Karis. They were talking about Sebastien Raine.”

“Huh, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Patrick says. “And who’s Karis? Fill me in, please?”

David relays the story of his time in the store today, from Karis coming in the store to Sebastien’s humiliating career flop. Patrick twirls spaghetti onto his fork as he listens, looking amused.

“What, and you just _forgot_ that Sebastien existed?”

David snorts. “I…I guess? Wow.”

The conversation tails off and then Patrick starts telling David some story about the meeting he’d had that day, but he’s only half-listening. He tries to recall the last time he thought about Sebastien at all, or heard his name without feeling that familiar burn and twist in his sternum, the triggering of bile in his throat. With his next mouthful of pasta, David feels a weighty, contented warmth settle in his chest. He leans in slightly and starts absently running a palm over Patrick’s leg.

“Oh, that’s the kind of mood you’re in, huh?” Patrick says, smirking.

David laughs. “You know I can’t do that right after eating anymore.”

“Oh yeah, old man. Gotta give you a minute for the antacids to kick in.”

_“Ha._ And no, I just wanted to touch you.”

Patrick leans under the table and runs a thumb over David’s knuckles. “Well, I’m not complaining.”

Later that evening, David _does_ wait for the antacids to kick in first, because a) he’s a responsible middle-aged man who knows his limits and b) he’s not about to risk a sequel to the Reflex/Reflux Incident of 2022, but after that he’s in his husband’s domain for the night.

As usual, it gets him out of his head in all the best ways, even though these days there’s no place he’d rather be.

* * *

_They didn’t leave him last week, either._

There was nothing at all particularly special about the last day of last week.

But, as usual, there’s always something in Patrick that can _make_ days special. Like the way he buys David’s favorite snacks and leaves them on the counter without saying anything. Like the way he buys David’s _least_ favorite snacks and leaves them on the counter and waits for David to yell in disgust at the sight of them. Like the way he can turn everything into a game, and David knows from a single look or a surprise attack on the couch that nearly knocked all the wind out of him that Patrick is in a playful mood.

Like the way that, on some particular days, they seem to bounce off each other’s energy and use the momentum to spend the entire twenty-four hours acting like complete children.

“Patrick? Why are you calling me while I’m literally ten meters away from the house?”

“Sorry, it’s just that I got up and I thought I saw someone who looked like you getting the mail in his _pyjamas,_ so I had to call and make sure. I’m pretty sure it’s not you, though.”

“Okay, I was cold! It’s not like anyone can even see me.”

Through the kitchen window, David sees Patrick look a little to the side of David’s head and waves.

“Wha – don’t scare me like that! I’m coming in.”

“Okay, David.”

“Staying on the phone, though, because I– Patrick. Open the door. Now.”

“…Nah, I think I’m good.”

“You’re a bitch, Patrick.”

“D’aww, look at you in your lil’ Ugg boots. Careful they don’t get wet.”

“I swear, I will _ram_ this door down.”

“No you won’t, we paid $250 for it.”

“I’ll ram _you_ down.”

“Ooh, please do.”

****

As though there’s something in the air, the customers all seem to be acting up as well. An older man had come into the store that morning, insisting about the existence of some product which neither David nor Patrick had ever heard of. He started rifling through the main display, sending bottles of hand cream and shampoo bars flying while David watched on, possibly more offended than he has been in his entire life, until Patrick forcefully encouraged him to leave.

As soon as that’s dealt with and David is sorting the display, he picks up the back-and-forth again.

“You have to stop kneecapping your sentences with customers.”

Patrick wheezes and splutters over his paper cup, sending hot tea splashing onto the counter.

“I’m sorry, did you just use the word kneecapping? What the fuck does that even mean?”

And Patrick only ever swears when he finds something ridiculously hilarious, so David obliges him.

“You know what I mean!” he says, his voice rising an octave. He puts on his best Patrick impression. “‘Oh, I was _just_ trying to help you find this thing’. Or ‘ _Maybe_ you should leave the store, sir, you’re being really disruptive.’”

“It’s polite!”

“It’s fluffy, and – and weak, is what it is!” David retorts, shoving a finger in Patrick’s face. “I did a webinar on effective communication with difficult customers in a retail environment and the person said –”

_“Ooh, the person said –”_

“Hey, today is _my_ day to make fun of _you.”_

“Says the one who basically came into town wearing his pyjamas this morning. I think you’re just asking for it today, David.”

Somewhere down the line, their bickering devolves into Patrick trying to show David that he’s ‘asking for it’ by attempting to tackle him to the ground in the middle of the store (not an easy feat, since David easily has fifteen pounds on him and they look up to see Ray inexplicably taking a photo through the window).

David’s not sure at all what has him so giddy about the day, but it just _does._ There are days like this that come and go, passing in a wave that comes more frequently as time goes by, days where he feels like he could never leave this town and be perfectly fine. He wants to shout and grab and romp and score his territory deep in the fences, the fields, the trees and the telephone lines; the village’s child. On days like this he smiles at everyone he sees, answers questions without a shred of sarcasm – except Patrick’s, of course, for on days like these they’re doing nothing but playfighting. Teasing for no other reason than it’s the greatest love language of all.

Just as they planned last night, David and Patrick finish their day with a hike (“For old times’ sake, David,” was all Patrick needed to say to convince him, along with a promise of the best picnic they were able to construct). David almost postponed the trip because he couldn’t find his rings anywhere, but in the end he gave up and conceded.

When they reach the top, having maintained their day-long argument with a couple of handheld quiet moments in between, Patrick gives David a curious look and tells him to start setting up the picnic. It all sounds familiar.

“Patrick, if you’re about to do what I think you’re about to do, then the answer this time is _no.”_

But Patrick, shit-eating Patrick, is already holding the rings.

“You are ridiculous.”

“So, I used to come on this hike a lot,” Patrick starts, hamming up his speech to the point of overacting every word.

David is hunched over laughing as Patrick postures and acts his way through the old speech, word for word. David brings his hands to his face.

“Why is this happening right now?”

“Old times’ sake! It’s ten years, David!”

“Oh my God, just give me the dumb rings back and kiss me already,” David says, because oh _God,_ he’s had _ten whole years_ with this ridiculous, nerdy, terribly opinionated, sports-loving troll of a man, and David feels crushed with love sometimes, crushed by the weight of all the sheer happiness Patrick has brought him. Someday, he’ll have spent more of his life inside this happiness than out. But David can’t think about that one too hard without needing to seek out his husband and hold him by the waist and bury his face between his shoulder blades.

* * *

And that’s what David’s doing now, as he mulls over the question Patrick asked of him. He’s ended up spooning Patrick on the sofa, the things in his head too full and heavy to really put into so many words.

_How does the old poem go? I do not think of thee. I am too near thee._

David did think about it for a while, his thoughts twining and budding like wild vines and roses around them in their small, stone-dashed haven of a home, until the deep, slow breaths of his husband bring his attention back to the room.

He figures they can sleep here for a night without too much discomfort. It might mean they have to spend the whole day in bed tomorrow, but that was the plan anyway.

David listens to Patrick’s breathing for a few moments. Patrick, who was content enough with the unsaid to let himself fall asleep without even receiving an answer.

Before he lets his own fatigue bed him down, David presses a soft kiss to the back of Patrick’s head.

“Oh, love,” he whispers, “as if you even need to ask.”


End file.
